?And you’re looking for help from us Y-chromo boys.?

?You got something better to do??

?Why should we put our asses on the line for you??

She finally glanced up at him, her eyes steely. ?Your asses are already on the line. The only question is what you’re going to do about it.? 149 X

Accompanied by prisoner David, Aaron showed Ripley through the vast storage chamber. When they reached the section where the drums were stored, he paused and pointed.

?This is where we keep it. I don’t know what this shit’s called.?

?Quinitricetyline,?David supplied helpfully.

?I knew that,?the assistant superintendent grumbled as he checked his notepad. ?Okay. I’m off to work out the section assignments with Dillon for the paintbrush team. David, you get these drums organized, ready to move.?He turned and headed in the direction of the main corridor.

?Right, Eight-five,?David called after him.

?Don’t call me that!?Aaron vanished into the darkness of the distant corridor.

Ripley examined the drums. They were slightly corroded

150

Alan Dean Foster

and obviously hadn’t been touched in some time, but otherwise appeared intact.

?What’s this ‘Eight-five’ thing??

David put gloved hands on the nearest container. ?Lot of the prisoners used to call him that. We got his personnel charts out of the computer a few years ago. It’s his IQ.?He grinned as he started to roll the drum.

Ripley stood and watched. ?He seems to have a lot of faith in this stuff. What’s your opinion??

The prisoner positioned the drum for loading. ?Hell, I’m just a dumb watchman, like the rest of the guys here. But I did see a drum of this crap fall into a beachhead bunker once. Blast put a tug in dry dock for seventeen weeks. Great stuff.?

In another part of the storage chamber prisoners Troy and Arthur sorted through the mass of discarded electronics components. Troy shoved a glass bead into the cylinder he was holding, thumbed the switch, then disgustedly wrenched the bead free and began hunting for another.

?Goddamn it. One fucking bulb in two thousand works.?

His companion looked up from his own search. ?Hey, it could be a lot worse. We mighta got the paintbrush detail.?He tried a bead in his own tube, hit the switch. To his astonishment and delight, it lit.

The two men filled the air duct with little room to spare, slathering the interior surface with the pungent quinitricetyline.

?This shit smells awful,?Prisoner Kevin announced for the hundredth time. His companion barely deigned to reply. 151

151

?I’ve told you already; don’t breathe it.?

?Why not??

?Fuckin’ fumes.?

?I’m in a fuckin’ pipe with it. How can I keep from breathing it??

Outside the toxic waste storage chamber other men were dumping buckets of the QTC and spreading it around as best they could, with brooms and mops and, where those were lacking, with their booted feet.